Repentance
by hyacinthian
Summary: [GSR] Don't think of me. [WIP]
1. i

A/N: From what I can remember, I intended this to be a work-in-progress, so expect more from me. Thanks so much to Sara for the betaing. Read. Review. Enjoy.

* * *

Sara Sidle hated birthdays. She hadn't begun to hate them until she turned thirty. That was when the questioning began. They were always asking. It wasn't any of their damn business anyway. She wished she was five-years-old again. When growing another year older was something to look forward to. When life actually intrigued her. When was the last time life had actually given her something worth rejoicing over? _When he asked you to come…and stay in Vegas. _Her mind answered her. And she wished it wouldn't.

The air seems suffocating. It envelops her, surrounding her. She has nowhere to go. And then the thoughts begin to seep in, random sounds making their way through the crevices of her mind. She wants to burrow a hole through the floor, and hide. Just stay. But she can't. It's late, and the moon's usual brightness is absent. The clouds are covering it. Surrounding it, like the oppressive heat is surrounding her.

She's seated in the corner of her kitchen, on the floor. Why is it every year on her birthday she's on the floor? There's a bottle of gin beside her, with a shot glass near it. She remembered in her mad scramble that she had gotten whiskey also. _You always need a fallback. _What had happened to the girl from Harvard? Was she utterly lost? She was lost in the escape. She poured gin into the shot glass, and sipped at it, enjoying the slow, tortuous burning. The shot glass was pretty pointless. She knew she would drink a large portion of the bottle, and she could accomplish that a lot quicker by drinking straight from the bottle. But the shot glass provides her something she needs. There's a meticulous activity she needs to accomplish. She pours carefully, making sure not to exceed the line. And then she lifts it, and sips at it slowly. It's almost ladylike.

A short, bitter laugh leaves the hollow of her throat, and glides over the silence like silk. She hasn't been anything resembling a lady in a long time. The alcohol assaults her senses, but she doesn't mind. To the contrary, she welcomes the feeling. It's a feeling of rapture. Substitution. Her whole life seems to be composed of substitutions. _Since she has no existing relatives, she'll be placed in a foster home immediately. _And now? She was replacing the rapture of love with the rapture of getting drunk. But that was a ways off. She could hold her liquor. And she still had a bottle of whiskey.

In the back of her mind, she hears a soft ringing. It takes a few minutes before she realizes it's her phone. She crawls over and rummages around, locating the little plastic thing. She lifts it, and answers it. "Sidle." It's him, and it's a crime scene. Yes, another thing demanding her attention. She ends the call, a smile dancing on her lips. Triumph lights up her features. She's become so skilled at hiding it. She's practically an expert. Quickly scrambling to her feet, she caps the gin, and plans to return to it later. She brushes her teeth, and gargles with mouthwash.

She drives slowly, methodically. Her complete knowledge of Nevada's driving laws is in the forefront of her mind. She arrives at the crime scene without incident. She parks her car, and meets him, prepared to receive her assignment. He delegates a room for her, and she heads off. Before she even takes a step, he inquires about her, and she replies positively. He can smell the faintest touch of alcohol on her breath. It's slight, and it intermingles with the overpowering mint. The investigator in him wants to interrogate her, to help in any way. But things have not been smooth lately between them. Their civilities are becoming more forced and tense than genuine and comfortable.

She is completely shocked when he asks her to breakfast. After all, was it not he that completely rejected her proposal for dinner? There is a part of her that is incensed, angry beyond belief at him, but she suppresses it. She accepts, flashing him a rare smile, and he tells her a restaurant. He asks her to meet him there. "Supposedly the best pancakes in Las Vegas," he says, flourishing the sentence with a nervous grin.

It's close to five a.m. now. The air is still cool. She wonders if it's still suffocating in her apartment. She gazes up at the stars, the ones that are hidden by a thin veil. He thinks they're akin to her. They're so bright, so beautiful, yet so distant, and there are parts of them that are always hidden. She smiles at him as she packs away the evidence she processed, and the equipment she used.

She steps into her car, and almost programs her brain to recall all the information about Nevada driving laws. Evasiveness is her key tool now. She places her hands on the steering wheel, and starts the car. As she drives away, she tries not to think of the gin waiting for her at home.

* * *

A/N: So what did you think? Sorry if it was out-of-character. Click shiny button? 


	2. ii

A/N: This is the second chappie. There won't be an update real soon, because I'm going on vacay. In fact, I'm leaving in about two hours. Super thanks to Sara for betaing. If there's anything OOC, it's her fault. :points finger: Just kidding. Read, review, enjoy.

* * *

Her palms begin to sweat as she tries to perfect her parking. She takes a deep breath. _It's a meal. _Somehow, the sentence doesn't begin to be reassuring. She pulls down the visor, and quickly fixes the nuances of her appearance she doesn't like. She huffs out a breath. _What am I doing? It's food…with Grissom. _With another shaky breath, she quickly finger-combs her hair.

She enters the restaurant, embracing the cool air conditioning. She spots his booth, nestled in the corner in the far right. She smiles softly. Her steps sound thundering in her own ear, her feet feel heavy. The plateau they were on had a cliff, and she feels like he's about to push her off it. She sits, across from him, and they chat. It's mindless chatter, just random things about the weather and their occupations. They're both stereotypical. For only a moment.

He grasps her hand, and her eyes instinctively drift towards the sight. His hand dwarfs hers by the slightest touch, and her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes seek his, and she sights nothing but concern. "Are you okay?" She wants to laugh. It was absolutely stupid of her to think he wouldn't find out. _He does this for a living. _She pulls her hand away, and replies.

"The waitress is coming." Her voice is raspy. The waitress, true-to-form, arrives when they're caught in this trap of awkwardness, and she takes their orders with a bright, painted face and a high-pitched voice. She leaves, and they're still caught. _It isn't hard for us at all_, she surmises. She mentally laughs, and the echoes frighten her. _Our relationship is nothing if not awkward. _He takes her hand again, and the tingles travel up her arm, down her spine. She hates herself. But she rationalizes. It's the one thing that will not change in her.

_It's all impulses and chemical reactions_, she thinks. It's a mantra she's used for every time he's touched her. But she knows. She knows there's more to her than her genes, cells, and the chemical reactions they indulge in. There's something so wretched in knowing that she's in love. "You didn't answer my question," he says.

She smiles, superficially, and leans back in the booth, taking her hand. "I'm fine." He has no reply to follow up, but his expression is enough. She knows he doubts the accuracy of the statement.

Their food arrives, and they eat, in relative silence. What was supposed to be a great leap forward does nothing but propels them back. She applauds his mustering of courage to ask her, but they haven't done anything but revel in the awkwardness. Afterwards, he pays for both of them, despite her voiced protests. "I'll see you later," he says. She smiles, and nods.

She drives home somewhat erratically, but she makes it there without being pulled over. She quickly hauls herself into her apartment. She wants to do nothing more but weep. Weep over the ashes of their relationship, of what happened, of what didn't. Instead, she returns to the kitchen floor.

Withdrawal is a funny thing. She's pouring herself another shot of gin. Their first encounter had been brief, but passionate, and she had longed to see him again afterwards. And now? It was their septillionth encounter and she no longer felt what she had in earlier years. She loved him, but that feeling of unrequited love had fallen over her heart, her soul, and she didn't know if he could seize the threads they'd dropped long ago. A feeling of independence settles over her, and she feels like she doesn't need him. She knows better. She does need him.

He calls her later, when she's laying on the sofa, enjoying the rush of alcohol in her mind. She answers the phone quickly. He invites her to dinner, at his apartment. She's thoroughly surprised. This is Grissom. And any step towards intimacy involving the both of them must have been preempted by a message from fate or Mother Nature. She agrees, though she doesn't know why, and he gives her a time.

Why is she so determined to make things work with this man? She rolls over, and stares at the blank television screen. She feels…nothing. Nothing but emptiness, and the faint stirrings of…of something.

* * *

What's the point of the shiny button being there if you don't click it? Click it. I daaaare you.


	3. iii

The room was dark. The only light was dim, muted, coming from a lamp in the corner. A bottle of liquor lay on her armoire. It seemed out of place in her bedroom, adorned with traditional décor. She felt it fit perfectly. She rummaged through her wardrobe, searching for an outfit. Every fit of frustration she felt, every time she just wanted to crawl into the corner and cry, and stand him up…she took a shot. Needless to say, there were many shots taken.

Eventually, fifteen minutes late and slightly buzzed, she headed to her car. She drove slowly, precisely, methodically. Parking cautiously, she checked her makeup. She headed to his apartment, and knocked on the door. He opened it quickly, and his eyes brushed over her. "You're late." He said nothing else. She nodded, and he allowed her entrance.

The set table did nothing to allude that this was a date. Or even to anything suggesting romance or friendship. It was cold, inanimate. The scene seemed to be devoid of emotion, of feeling. There were two stark white plates, with meager amounts of food placed upon them. She saw a glass and her heart rate increased a bit. It diminished when she realized it was water. "Sorry," she belatedly added. He raised a hand to stave off any other words.

"Have you been drinking, Sara?" Her mouth was agape in shock, and she just stared at him. She couldn't describe the feeling of rage, which began to circulate in her body. Her flesh was heating from the anger, and she wanted to kill him. He paused for a second, casting his eyes on her again inquisitively. "Well?"

She seated herself at the table calmly, and began picking at the food. Occasionally, she'd nibble at it, but her main goal wasn't to eat at the moment. He asked for her reply again, and she set the fork down with a bit more force than she planned to. "That's none of your damn business," she replied, coldly. Still tranquil, Grissom walked back and forth and observed her. _I am not your fucking test subject. _

"Glazed eyes, dilated pupils, evasiveness," he began. "All the symptoms."

She stood too quickly, the chair falling to the floor. She walked over to him, hands on her hips. "Symptoms of what, Grissom?" she challenged. "Alcoholism?" He said nothing. "Was that the point of this dinner? An intervention?" She huffed out a laugh. "I don't believe you." She headed for the door.

"It's affecting your job, Sara." And like that, she paused. She couldn't believe the nerve of this man. He was always playing this game of stop and go with her. Not just her heart, but _her_. It was as if he controlled her every action, and she hated it.

"Is it?"

"As your supervisor, I'd have to place you on leave until you sorted this out."

"Don't pull that bullshit card on me, Grissom. I do my job damn well, and you know that." She headed for the door again. "I should have left the first time I wanted to, Grissom. The first time you decided that maybe I wasn't worth your fucking time or concern." She was shouting now and she didn't care. "But I stayed, and let me tell you, it wasn't for the damn plant you got me. You didn't respect me then, and you still don't now!" He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no sound came out. "And it isn't because of the alcohol."

"I respect you." The only words that managed to escape his lips were lies. Sighing in frustration, she turned and left. She rushed back to her apartment, half-concerned with Vegas driving laws. She just needed the comfort, the healing numbness of the first sip, or the first drink, or the first bottle.

She returned home, and quickly tossed her keys on a table. She opened her refrigerator, and found there to be no alcohol. She raced through the rooms, searching. Did she drink her entire stash? She returned to the living room, and sank on the sofa. She ran with the current of her emotions, allowing the stifling sobs to steal her breath away. At least something still _could _steal her breath away. She was glad for the rush of torrential fear and sadness. It made her feel human. _Love shouldn't make you want to die_, one voice said. _Neither should your life. _She shook her head to clear the voices. The silence of the room, for once, mirrored the silence in her mind. She embraced it.

She went for one last drive and spent quite a bit of money on liquor. She restocked her regular alcoholic beverage holding receptacles, and drank. Tonight, she would spend the night alone, wallowing in alcohol and misery.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow…would be her first day in a world that could care less who Gil Grissom was. And she embraced that thought.


	4. iv

A/N: First off, CSI doesn't belong to me. Secondly, I apologize for the long delay. This wasn't betaed, and I don't know how I feel about this chapter. I had the basic plot idea in mind...I just...don't know. If it sucks, that's my fault. Otherwise, read, review, enjoy.

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She awoke to darkness. Stifling darkness that hindered her every thought and her every movement. The anger…no, the rage…that she had felt before hadn't diminished at all. She was pissed, and she could almost see the flow of her rage, waves of crimson flowing back and forth in a steady flow. What the fuck was wrong with her? After years of knowing him, of loving him, she should have been able to sense…to know…without a doubt that he would have known.

Her temples began to pulse, echoing the angered beats of her heart. She walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a beer. No need adding more alcohol to her system than was necessary. The sarcasm in her mind was caustic, and acidic, and it cut through any decent thought she may have had towards Grissom. She grimaced. Mentally saying the name left a bad taste on her mind, her tongue, her lips.

She took time into her appearance today. She wore the slightest touch of make-up. Light dabs of blush and shadow to make her look…more appealing. Except today, she wasn't appealing to her boss. Today, she was appealing to her co-worker. There had always been something between them. To her, it felt like deadened static. But he loved her. And that was important. He loved her, and she could grow to love him. But she needed that emotional support. _Besides, _she thought, _he wouldn't be hard to love anyway. _

She heads to work relatively early. She doesn't want to be there to catch all the people. Yet she knows there'll still be people there. People who have pulled days and nights to work the one case they're so bent on cracking. She's one of those people. She was. And maybe someday she will be again.

He's in the lab, as usual. There's random equipment scattered, and he has rock music playing in the background. She places her hands on her hips and watches him, amused. He's dancing while testing things, swaying his hips as he places things in the centrifuge. He turns around, sensing the eyes on him. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you have my results?" He shuffles around, before grabbing a sheaf of papers. He hands them to her. She analyzes the graphs. It's a pretense, and she hopes that he doesn't realize this. She's always loved pretenses.

"Sara?" She turns to him, and mumbles. "Want to get breakfast later? Like after shift or something?" He's so nervous and she thinks it's cute. She grins, and accepts his offer. Greg just smiles. He knew…just knew…that one day, the law of large numbers would be on his side. He wasn't a statistician or anything, but at the moment, he was thanking the person who created the law of large numbers.

She tries to avoid him all day. It doesn't really work, as he's her superior, but she keeps up the effort. He assigns her to cases with him, as if somehow working on a case together will repair their relationship. _Nothing like a rotting corpse to bring two people together. _There's nothing left for him in the shell that he left of her. You can't burn a city, and return to expect a welcome. She says nothing that isn't relevant to the case, and when she must speak to him, it's in a curt, professional tone. She wants him to know that he fucked it up. Badly.

After the case is wrapped up, she's in the lab, and she's talking to Greg. Her demeanor with him is friendlier, nicer, more flirtatious. He says he's excited for later. She agrees with him. He has to finish testing something, so he goes back to work. She leaves. She turns, and he's standing there. She smiles at him, and starts walking. She hopes she's broken his heart as many times as he's broken hers.

She returns home, and she finds her whiskey bottle. She pours the whiskey into a mug she used to reserve for tea. She drinks it quickly, and relishes the burn. There is a grim smile on her face. She's wounded him, and she feels some satisfaction. _He deserves it, the fucking bastard. _Her mind has been on a rampage lately, and she's mainly been vindictive towards him.

She finds the plant he gave her, and she walks into her kitchen. She pulls the plant from its pot, and shakes the dirt off into a trashcan. She takes the plant, and sets it on her range. She turns the knob and hears the clicking. Blue flame lights beneath the plant. It catches fire. She watches it burn. She watches each individual leaf turn black at the edges before folding in upon itself. She stands and observes. _Now the plant's as dead as us. _With careful precision, she scrapes all the plant's ashes into a plastic baggie. She tapes it shut. She grabs an index card and quickly scrawls on it. _Thanks for the plant. _She signs her name beneath it.

She heads into the shower, and turns the water on hot. It's Las Vegas, and there's no need to turn up the head, but she needs to. She's seeking to scald. She needs to feel the sizzle of her flesh, the tingling down to her toes that tells her that she's branded. She's branded a clean woman. All the ties she has will be burned off, and every lie he's ever told her will wash off. It'll melt off of her. And she's comforted by that thought. She needs to wash him off, burn him out of her thoughts.

She steps out of the shower, her skin a noticeable pink. She dresses quickly, and drinks a sip straight from the whiskey bottle before returning it to its rightful place. She meets Greg for breakfast, at the supposed best waffle house in the city, and they have fun. She laughs. At the end of it all, he kisses her.

Grissom returns to his office. There's too much paperwork to file, too many cases to solve. And his relationship with Sara, like his headache, isn't getting any better. As he sits at his desk, he notices a plastic bag. He reads the note, eyes scanning quickly and purposefully. He heaves a sigh, and places the bag in a drawer. He knows what he'll find if he analyzes it. And he can't help but feel that he ruined his only chance of happiness.


	5. v

A/N: Sorry for the long hiatus between updates.

* * *

She danced with him once. It was a clumsy dance, as she, half-drunk, tried to recall the steps. He had smiled and his warmth just encompassed her. She had smiled then, considered it a symbol of their courtship. She doesn't smile anymore. Not genuine smiles. She creates deceitful smiles of happiness, weaving her way out of every confrontation. 

She wonders if he remembers. She remembers. She remembers everything about that night. Even the wine. It was tart and bitter, but it was a perfect complement to him. She had kissed him that night, a thorough, searing kiss to steal his breath away. She doesn't remember if it worked. He danced with her again, and all she remembers is the twirling. Circles. Constant circles.

That was the first time they had sex. Made love. One or the other. After all the drinks and all the abuse, it starts to blend together. You can't distinguish anymore. The wine mutes everything. All she remembers are the tangled limbs, how he tasted, how he smelled, how he acted. She remembers in bits and pieces. And if she remembers for too long, she can still feel his hands on her, gently taking what he wanted. That's all he did in their relationship. She's a shell now. She knows it. _Something _has hollowed her out, made her a figurine, a trophy for someone to dust occasionally. It leaves a lot of time for self-abuse. She wants to blame him. But she knows part of it is her fault too. And she knows somewhere that the alcohol has a key role in it. But she can't uncover the mysteries of the universe…or Grissom. It's too late, and she's too bitter. And what would she do then? Run back into his arms and expect another compliment a leap year and be satisfied? If anything, her pride wouldn't let her. And pride is all she has left. Pride. And work.

She watches him in the lab, dancing and headbanging among test tubes and centrifuges. Very precious equipment. Very priceless equipment. She wonders if he realizes that she's just as fragile. She wonders how he'd dance with her. Would he step on her toes like she stepped on his? Would he whisper things into her ear? Would he take her someplace where ball gowns were only fashionable if there were seven million rips and tears in them? She tries not to imagine morbid scenarios, but they emerge anyway. She closes her eyes.

There's something different in her demeanor. A date with Grissom meant walking on eggshells, special preparation. A date with Greg meant…jeans and a t-shirt. Something casual, something comfortable. She wondered if she could ever think of Greg in a romantic sense. She had always just considered him a friend. You don't need love to make a relationship work. It's just another relationship. Like a contract. I stipulate what you do for me, you tell me what you expect of me in return.

She changed their plans. Breakfast to lunch. Not that it mattered to her. To her, it was only a change in axial position, time, food items. She wouldn't even try to fathom what it meant to him. She had wasted so much of her life fathoming, trying to understand somebody else. She couldn't take it anymore. She would take her date with Greg at face value. No more, no less.

So she dons her clothing. It's almost like snapping on gloves at a crime scene. If you start to hide behind things long enough, they actually start to hide you. She puts on make-up. She's amazed that dust hasn't started to collect on her cosmetics. She's putting on her shoes when the doorbell rings. She answers it, face flushed, cheerful expression plastered on. The deceit comes second nature to her now. She doesn't know if she should be proud or disgusted. He smiles behind a large bouquet. She takes them, a genuine smile dancing on her lips.

"Thanks, Greg. They're beautiful." She hopes he doesn't reply with something cliché about how she's beautiful. She doesn't expect him to. He doesn't. "You really didn't have to."

The playful glint returns to his eye, bright and shining. He knows that it's not going to be sober and serious. He knows that she wants to keep things the same. Except heightened. He doesn't know what he thinks. Well, he can't understand it anyway. "I was raised traditionally," he says, with a grin. "Flowers, candy, diamonds."

"In that order?"

Their quips make it seem more comfortable, more them. But the awkwardness jostles its way in, stealing a front-row seat. By the end of the night, they have worked themselves into a comfortable silence. They've managed to work their relationship from the plateau up to a higher, more dangerous cliff, but the awkward silence is there. Which is why she is thoroughly surprised when she finds herself kissing him. He kisses her back, his hands settling themselves on her waist. He tries to ignore the subtle taste of alcohol that lingers on her teeth. She pulls away, smiling. She feels sixteen again. "I had fun tonight."

"Me too." He can't bring himself to say something witty. Everything popping into his head sounds…wrong. So he doesn't say anything. He lets the silence settle in. "We should do this again." She nods, and he leans in to kiss her. It's a gentle kiss, a chaste one. Her lips just seem to tempt him. They whisper good night, and she walks into her building.

She pours herself a glass of red wine, and draws back her window curtains. She watches the moon and drinks slowly. She's savoring. She touches her lips, remembering the feeling of when Greg kissed her. Inevitably, the memory of her first kiss with Grissom returns to her as well. She downs the rest of her glass quickly, drawing the curtains closed. The moon disappears, and she's receding into darkness. She can't stop thinking about him. She tries not to think of it as lying to herself, but it's inevitable to see it any other way. She bites her lip and draws blood. As she tastes it, she can't help but think that there's no way to run from yourself.


End file.
